Mortal Beach (say it like you mean it, you know the accent), PopPop Israelien’s retirement facility: a skyscraping tower flanked by two low and white wings that host pools both indoor and out; hedging, wellkempt; the ocean teems just outside. They pull up the lazy drive ranked in palms rubbed together for warmth, then idle. An elderly, unseasonably polyester apparition stoops under a canopy sagging with snow. Him, he’s out of shaped, as if a genital cut into covenant — hung flaccidly, flagging like the form of the state they’re in, dysfunction. Wanda unlocks, helps Benjamin out, approaches with caution, with nothing to say, burdens the luggage about His shoulders and arms with no help from His grandfather, if that’s who he is, who must be when he takes from the pocket of his polyester the rent he’d shylocked last week, a jealous wad, rips from it what feels less than half, best I can do then presses its stack into the palm of the woman to mingle their shvitz: Wanda who refuses at first, as she’d been conditioned, but then, he pushes, understanding the ritual yet hoping for a final refusal, and now and as if a denial or two too early and quickly, Wanda accepts, stuffs the mess down into her dress to lump her another breast between the two that are already abundant, kisses Benjamin distractedly, with only one lip on the fat lip of His forehead, withdraws, hauls herself back into the idling rover, out and through the lot then down the lower drive; slowly going so as to avoid the bodies arrayed, stacked by numbers, floor then unit, corpses asphalted and ready for pickup, under the circling and perch of harbinger birds.
Polaks, PopPop sighs, waving a fist in her wake.
And then, turning to consider Benjamin, raising his voice — don’t slouch, stand straight, chins up, don’t forget to breathe; as the lesser of our prophets advise, enjoy it while it lasts.
A week’s vacation begins with a game, chess, the rules PopPop’s, those of the house, the loser to pay for the delivery they’re expecting, any moment. Miso pepperoni. A large pie topped with anchovy sushi. Carbohydrate with extra cheese. Languorous lo mein. And so he goes easy on Him, slow but not too: there’s no blitz, no other nefarious gambit with three moves to check, four to mate; PopPop relaxing, even offering Him to play white.
In this life, the rules are so seldom explained.
Here, the hope’s to safeguard the King, to protect him no matter the price, even that of the Queen whose room He has, MomMom’s — always and early: pieces are introduced, sent out to allow in the air, pawns like the princes in fairytales He’s never been told, set out into the world in which to find for us their fortunes; then the King, He should shuffle inside, Castling, slamming the heavy door to every heart along the hallway, narrowly longing: needing His solitude, such majestic room or space, crown removed, tarnished, flaking leaf to the ore, only to be cornered in a cloaking nightshirt, gnawing at His nails—
In Miami, everything exists for Him, even PopPop, who calls Benjamin accordingly: King, the address if he’s angry; more usually he’ll go with your Majesty, in a mocking, patronizing lisp: as in, would your Majesty like to eat now or in an hour, then a smirk, it’s time for your Majesty’s shower or bath, has your Majesty finished His chores, cleaning, sweeping, rag and sponge, time for linner your Majesty, time for your dunch, has your Majesty yet scrubbed His teeth, flossed with the mouthwash, did you forget, it’s your Majesty’s bedtime — or, hours past, which means they’re still playing, the only activity allowing Him to know late, the midnight quirks of the fridge, the toilet tank gurgitation, what bulbs’ve gone out that PopPop’s never replaced because, don’t worry, he’ll tell you, your move.
